


Keeping Promises

by cyphernaut



Series: Miles to Go [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/853856">Miles to Go Before I Sleep</a>.</p><p>This is basically just cute, fluffy reunion fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prohibited from leaving the bedroom until seven o'clock, Mousie and John huddled under a duvet carefully stretched between the bed and several chairs John had procured from the dining room. They were drawing pictures of dinosaurs from a book Uncle Mycroft had bought, an unexpected gift after John had expressed interest in a science programme on the telly, whilst John carefully described the traits of each species for Mousie's benefit. He was so absorbed in his lecture that he didn't notice Mycroft's approach until his uncle's voice penetrated the blanket fort.

“Good morning, John.”

John jerked up quickly, dropping his crayon to the rug and cuddling Mousie to his chest so the stuffed animal wouldn't be nervous. The two partners in crime were sitting amidst the very evidence that they had flouted the rules about moving furniture from room to room without permission. A corner of the duvet lifted to reveal Uncle Mycroft's face, and John peeked up at him.

“I see you've done some unauthorized early morning redecorating,” Mycroft said, and John hid his face in Mousie's fur.

“Sorry,” he murmured into Mousie, but it was hard to be _really_ sorry. He didn't like to upset his uncles, but John was quite fond of his blanket fort. He hoped he'd be allowed to keep it for the rest of the day.

“Would you like breakfast?” Uncle Mycroft asked him, his hand resting lightly on the top of John's head, and John nodded. “Come with me, then.”

John scrambled up to follow his uncle to the kitchen.

“Can I talk to Daddy today?”

“I doubt it. He's travelling today.” It had been a week since John had been able to talk to his daddy, and every day, Uncle Mycroft said that he was travelling. It took less than a day to get all the way from England to New Zealand, and there weren't any places in the world farther from each other than those. He thought about that as Mycroft guided him to the sink, thought about how Mycroft was more concerned with the dirt under John's fingernails than he was with talking to Daddy. “Wash your hands and sit down.”

Knowing Mycroft didn't like it when he stalled, John let his hands linger under the warm water. When Mycroft didn't complain, John mumbled, “I really want to talk to him.”

Mycroft turned off the tap and wiped John's hands dry with a tea towel. “Sit down, please, John.”

John grudgingly obeyed, glaring at the table top and huffing out his discontent.

“John, when I feel overwhelmed by my emotions as you do now, I try to redirect that energy into something productive. For me, that's my work. You might be better off with something more physically active. Greg's already offered to take you out to play football this morning.”

“I don't want to play football!” He stomped his feet and banged his fists on the table for emphasis. “I want to talk to Daddy!”

“What's this?” Greg asked from behind him, and John's face went red. He'd not intended for Uncle Greg to witness his naughtiness as well. “You don't want to play football with me?”

Recovering quickly from his shame, John leapt from his chair and threw himself into Greg's embrace. “Uncle Mycroft won't let me talk to Daddy!”

Uncle Greg held him tightly, humming into his hair, and for a moment John thought he might have an ally in his outrage, but Greg soon pulled back and stared firmly down at him. “You know Mycroft works very hard to arrange for you two to talk as much as possible. It's not fair to blame him when he can't set up a meeting.”

John broke eye contact and buried himself in Greg's shoulder. “But I really want to talk to Daddy.”

“I know.” Greg ran a quick hand through his hair, then steered him back to the table. “Let's sit down, okay?”

John's legs obeyed even as he continued to protest, and he soon found himself back in his chair with his toast staring up at him. He pushed the plate away. No matter how hungry he was, he didn't want anything except his daddy.

Greg pulled the plate back toward them. “Aren't you hungry? You'll need your energy if we're going to the park today.”

“I don't want it.” 

“Come on, now, John. Just a few bites, yeah?” Greg cajoled, and John pressed his lips together and shook his head. Just as Greg opened his mouth to push further, Mycroft whisked the plate away from under both their noses.

“John has made it clear that he's unwilling to eat at this time. The food will still be here when he decides he's ready for it.”

A loud rumble from John's stomach betrayed him, and his face burned under Mycroft's bland stare. Greg was less reserved, shooting John a concerned glance even as Mycroft leaned down to kiss the top of John's head.

“Greg, may I speak to you in my office? There's something I'd like to discuss.”

As Greg followed Mycroft out of the room, John wondered whether he was the “something” that Mycroft planned to discuss. He'd been a little naughty, but not completely horrible, and they'd not scolded him about it. He hoped they wouldn't tell Daddy how he'd acted.

His stomach growled again, and the plate of food caught John's eye. Without Mycroft and Greg to push up against, his resolve wavered in the face of his hunger. He crept to the counter and took a quick bite of the toast, then another when the first served only to whet his appetite. Soon, the plate was empty and John was washing down his breakfast with the milk that Mycroft had poured for him.

“Are you still hungry?” Greg asked, and John whirled around to see him in the doorway. “Do you want me to make you some eggs?”

Looking at his empty plate, then back down to his toes, John nodded. Instead of making the eggs, Greg walked over to John and wrapped him in a hug. “It's okay to be upset. We know you miss him.” 

John nodded into Greg's jumper. “I'm sorry,” he said, and Greg kissed his hair. “What did Uncle Mycroft say?”

“He told me that if we left you alone, you'd likely eat your breakfast.” He released John in order to pull the eggs from the refrigerator. John followed, and Greg narrowly avoided giving John a black eye when he turned back around directly into John's waiting face. Catching the eggs before they tumbled to the ground, Greg reached out to steady them both. “Sit down at the table, sweetheart.”

Anxiety kept John from obeying the command. “Did he say I was naughty?”

“I most certainly did not.” Mycroft answered, appearing from nowhere in the most opportune time, as he was wont to do. John bit his lip as Greg went to the hob to start the eggs, releasing the conversation to Mycroft's direction. “I said that you were cross with me because I couldn't set up a meeting and that you hoped to punish me by refusing your breakfast.”

Squirming under Mycroft's stern patience, John began to suck at his knuckles. When described in that way, his behaviour seemed even worse, as if he were being intentionally spiteful to Uncle Mycroft.

“I take it that your new-found appetite means your anger at me has subsided.”

Shame overwhelmed him, and John looked to Uncle Greg for guidance.

“Mycroft, stop torturing him.”

Mycroft took John's face in his hands. “John, you are under my care, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I don't believe I've fallen short in that, or given you reason to be angry at me.”

In truth, the idea of long term resentment of Mycroft was terrifying. Without him and Uncle Greg, John would be alone in the world, with no one to take care of him. When Sherlock had jumped from the roof, John had lost everything, and Mycroft and Greg had served as the scaffolding that had allowed him to construct another life for himself. John leaned further into Mycroft, who responded in kind, with one hand on the back of John's head and another between his shoulder blades.

“That said, the human heart is not ruled by logic, and part of yours is still with my brother. I understand that I am a convenient, if inappropriate, target for your displeasure at your separation.”

John took a deep breath, ready to apologize, but as his lungs filled with the smell of Mycroft's soap and cologne, he realized that he was already forgiven, and he couldn't manage to do anything other than grasp his uncle tighter.

“Do you understand what Mycroft said, John?” Greg asked him, setting a plate of eggs on the table as Mycroft led John back to his chair.

John nodded. While he hadn't understood every word, the meaning had been clear. Mycroft loved him, maybe not in the immediate, all encompassing way that Greg did, but at least as much. Greg's love wrapped around him like a soft blanket that John could cocoon himself inside. Mycroft's love warmed him like the radiator: solid and constant, impervious to any action on John's part. He couldn't explain that, though, so he grabbed his egg and stuck it in his mouth, ignoring the cutlery Greg had set out for him.

“Use your fork, John,” Mycroft instructed, just as John knew he would.

* * *

The day was clear, and warm for October. By the time John and Greg had run each other to exhaustion and fallen on the grass, football between them, the park was full of Londoners out enjoying the uncommonly pleasant weather. John scanned the crowd.

“Where are the people?” he asked.

“There are lots of people,” Greg answered absently.

“I mean the people who always watch us.”

Uncle Greg suddenly gave John his full attention. “You noticed them?”

“Yeah, they always watch us when we go outside.” He could see them clearly in his head: the tall man with the scar above his left eye, the woman with her blond hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail, and the others, a rotating mix of individuals who never seemed to enjoy a day out as much as they should. “Where'd they go?”

“They were making sure we were safe, but now we're safe without them.”

“Why weren't we safe?” John wriggled over and lay his head on Greg's shoulder. 

“We were, John. We were safe with them, and now we're safe without them, too.”

John had so many questions that he didn't know where to start. He opened his mouth, but Uncle Greg suddenly turned to him with an overly eager smile.

“Do you want some ice cream?”

John did want ice cream, but he also wanted answers to his questions. “Yes, but-”

“What flavour?”

Confused by the sudden change of topic, John faltered. “Chocolate?”

“Brilliant, up we get, then.” Uncle Greg stood quickly and pulled his mobile from his pocket. “I'll just phone home.”

The last time Uncle Greg had been so evasive, Daddy had been beaten up by rebels in Nepal. Even then, Greg had told him something. John heart began to race as he remembered the how they hadn't let him turn on the video. Daddy's voice had been hoarse and awkward, and faint bruises had still been visible weeks later when he had finally been allowed to video chat again. Greg was looking at his watch, frowning as he held the mobile to his ear, and John tugged at his sleeve.

“Uncle Greg, what happened to Daddy?”

Greg covered the microphone and shook his head at John. “Nothing, sweetheart, he's fine.” He turned away and spoke back into the phone. “Sorry, John is-”

“Then why can't I talk to him?” John pursued. He didn't give Greg a chance to respond, and instead pulled on the arm holding the phone. “I want to hear what Uncle Mycroft is saying.”

When Greg resisted, John tugged harder, then grabbed the phone out of Uncle Greg's hand and held it to his own ear.

“John!” Greg scolded him, but John ignored him.

“What happened to Daddy?” John asked into the phone.

Mycroft paused, then let out a little burst of air that let John know he was not at all pleased with this turn of events. “John, am I to understand that you just wrenched the phone from Greg's hand?”

“I wanted to hear about Daddy,” John insisted, unrepentant.

“He is _fine_. As Greg was about to tell you, the situation has changed, and you will speak with him today. Right now, though, you are to give Greg back his phone.”

“But-”

“Do as I say, John.” The air around him hung heavy with the expectation of his obedience, a force John tried vainly to resist as he chewed on his lower lip. In the wake of Mycroft's command, a dead weight settled in John's stomach, and he could feel his uncle's piercing stare from across seven city blocks.

He handed the phone back to uncle Greg, who still didn't look happy with him. John dropped his eyes to the grass and idly poked at it with his trainers. He listened to the rest of his uncles' conversation, but as Uncle Greg's half mainly consisted of agreeing to Mycroft's inaudible instructions, John was left knowing as little as he had before.

When Uncle Greg finally put the phone back in his pocket and rested a hand on John's shoulder, John could barely bring himself to look up, ready for the inevitable lecture on proper behaviour.

“How about that ice cream?” Greg asked him.


	2. Chapter 2

As they approached their front door, Uncle Greg wiped at John's face, for the fifth time since they'd left the ice cream shop. John crinkled his nose and allowed it, giving only a token protest at the excessive ministrations.

“I'm already clean.”

“Sorry,” Greg said, releasing John's face. “Before we go inside, I want to talk to you.”

As Greg paused, another familiar voice filtered through the front door. “I hear Daddy!” John shouted, reaching for the door. “Mycroft started the video chat without me!”

Luckily, the door was unlocked, and John was soon inside, running down the hallway to Mycroft's study.

“John, wait!” Greg called after him, but John ignored him. He raced to Mycroft's office, with Uncle Greg close behind.

As soon as he stepped inside, he saw that Mycroft had not, in fact, started the video chat with Daddy. 

There was no video chat, because Daddy was in the room.

As John absorbed this fact, the room began to tilt. John tried to adjust, but his head was floating and his movements had slowed. He started toward Daddy, but he fell. A sharp pain shot through his knee, and he was vaguely aware of it. It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered as Greg's hands wrapped around John's biceps, lifting him off the floor and allowing him to run the last few metres into his daddy's arms.

“Daddy!”

“John,” Daddy answered him. Daddy's voice enveloped him, held him tightly, just as Daddy's arms folded snugly around him, a hand behind his head, and one between his shoulder blades. It was so perfect that John was scared to breathe, afraid everything would fall apart at the slightest movement.

He buried his face in Daddy's neck, then looked up again to see that it was really him. John placed a hand on each of Daddy's cheeks, pushing their noses together, trying to get closer, as if their faces could meld into an indivisible whole. Finally, he buried his face back into his daddy's neck, determined never to let go.

When Daddy shifted underneath him, John clutched him all the tighter.

“Take me with you, Daddy. I want you to take me with you.”

“I'm not leaving, John.” The hand between John's shoulder blades began to rub small circles into his back. “Certainly not now that you've cut off all circulation to my right leg.”

John ignored the words in favour of listening to the timbre of his daddy's voice. Everything was perfect, and John wanted nothing more than to suspend time and live in the moment forever. Daddy kissed his hair, and John melted further into him, inhaling deeply.

“Daddy, you smell different.” John sniffed again, committing everything about this moment to his permanent memory.

“As do you. You've been using Lestrade's shampoo.” John smiled at the deduction as Daddy plucked a bit of grass out of John's hair. “Although not recently, it would seem.” 

John nodded, compliant and unconcerned with anything other than holding on to Daddy forever.

* * *

The water was just warm enough, exactly the way John liked it, with bubbles piled up high enough to hide the toy boat Mycroft had brought back from a trip to Germany.

“I see Greg bathed you while I was gone,” Daddy said, and John dunked the boat under the water, letting its buoyancy pop it back to the surface. 

“Yeah, and sometimes Uncle Mycroft.” In actuality, they had only helped him to wash his hair and scrub his back, but John didn't want Daddy to know that he was able to wash everything else himself. He liked the feeling of his daddy running the warm, soapy flannel across his skin, especially when he washed between John's fingers and toes. Daddy didn't look happy, though, and John wondered whether he'd been caught in the misdirection. He changed the subject quickly. “Daddy, look at the crayon soap that Uncle Greg and I made. Do you want me to make you a picture? I can draw it on the wall. Even Uncle Mycroft doesn't care.”

“Hmm, yes,” Daddy said absently, filling the bucket with water.

John worked on his drawing while his daddy washed his hair, pausing occasionally to hold a flannel over his eyes at Daddy's direction, so the water could sluice harmlessly over his head. By the time Daddy started to drain the tub, John had finished drawing the two of them at their Baker Street flat.

“Daddy, look, I drew your microscope so you can do an experiment. That's my practise wall, and if you like it, I can draw you another one on paper so you can keep it forever.” Daddy kept all of John's drawings in a special file at Baker Street, each one carefully dated for future reference.

“After dinner.” Daddy stood John up, then wrapped a bath towel around him. “The takeaway's already here.”

Daddy started toward the bedroom, and John struggled to step out of the tub to follow. “Wait, Daddy. I want to come with you.”

Daddy continued to walk away. “Stay there, and I'll be back with your clothes.”

“But I want to go with you,” John repeated, stumbling after him, and Daddy turned around to fix him with a stern gaze that rooted John's feet to the floor.

“As you've said. And I've said that it's not allowed.”

The cool, dry air from the bedroom wafted over John's skin, lifting goose pimples as he stood waiting, keenly feeling the tension between where he was and where he wanted to be. Daddy was already in the bedroom, and John squeezed his eyes shut against the distance between them. Hot tears pushed against the lids, but before they could fall, his daddy's arms were around him, rubbing at his back through the towel.

“Sentiment,” Daddy said, and John nodded mutely. Daddy kissed the top of his head, then tilted John's face up so that they could look each other in the eyes. John waited as Daddy searched his face. He knew he shouldn't have kept walking after his daddy had said no. There'd been no reason to cry over it, but his heart felt strangely adrift, like the slightest push could send it careening out of control. He clutched at Daddy's shirt, tethering his own emotions in the process. Whatever Daddy found in him must have been enough, because after another short kiss, Daddy shook out the pyjama bottoms he'd found in John's drawers.

Gnawing on the corner of his bath towel, John eyed the pyjamas his daddy was offering him. “Uncle Mycroft likes me to wear proper clothes for dinner.”

“One of the many ways in which my brother and I differ,” Daddy said, holding them out for John to step into.

A vision of Uncle Mycroft's disapproving face and voice gave John pause, but the image was soon eclipsed with the very real sight of his Daddy, and John stepped into the clothes. They were soft and inviting, and perfect for an after-dinner cuddle. Once they were settled on John's hips, Daddy grabbed for the tee shirt on the counter, an old one of Greg's that John had been allowed to take for himself.

“Daddy, do you remember when you used to steal Uncle Mycroft's shirts for pyjamas and then one day he didn't have any left?”

“Hmm.” Daddy pulled the tee shirt over John's head, and John contorted his arms to reach the sleeves, his earlier concern forgotten.

“And then your mum was very cross with you and said you hid them so he couldn't pack for uni and would have to stay at home with you?”

“A ridiculous theory.” Daddy straightened the shirt and threw the towel back on the rack. “I'm sure she was projecting her own separation anxiety onto me.”

“And then he let you pick out a shirt to keep when he left, and he let me wear one of his shirts, too, but it's dirty because I wore it last night.” Daddy had grabbed a dry towel and was rubbing John's hair dry. John batted at the towel edges tickling his face and neck. “Do you want him to give you one to sleep in tonight?”

“No.” Daddy tossed the towel to the floor and ran his fingers through John's hair. “Time for dinner.”

“But do you remember, Daddy?”

“Greg and Mycroft are waiting,” Daddy said, and guided him through the doorway.

* * *

John lay in his daddy's arms, just has he had wanted for the past two years. He buried his nose in the front of his daddy's shirt and breathed in deeply. Just as he was starting to drift off, a realization jerked him back to full wakefulness.

“Uncle Greg forgot to kiss me and Mousie goodnight!” he exclaimed, sitting up and looking toward the doorway in alarm.

“Greg and Mycroft both kissed you goodnight after you finished your puzzle.” Daddy tugged at John's arm. “Go back to sleep.”

“He's supposed to kiss me after I get into bed, too.” Even the times he came back after John had already fallen asleep, John was often startled awake by the soft creak of the bedroom door as Greg checked on him. Bewildered by his uncle's failure, John ran to the hallway. “Uncle Greg!”

“John, come back to bed,” Daddy said, his tone firm in the face of John's continued disobedience. Torn between finding Uncle Greg and listening to Daddy, John stood in the hallway. The bed creaked as Daddy rose to follow him, and John ran back to the bedroom, knowing he'd be in more trouble if Daddy had to chase him down. They collided in the dark, and his daddy's grip just barely prevented John from tumbling to the ground at the impact. It didn't loosen after John regained his balance, and he found himself being steered firmly back to the bed.

“But what about Uncle Greg?” John mumbled as his daddy pulled the duvet over them.

“You'll see him tomorrow morning.”

John wanted to see Uncle Greg in the morning, but he also wanted to see him immediately for his good night kiss. He looked longingly at the door, and was finally rewarded when Greg's outline appeared right outside the open bedroom door.

“What's the matter, John?” Uncle Greg asked, and Daddy huffed into the back of John's hair.

“You forgot to kiss me good night.”

Uncle Greg hovered in the doorway, and John hugged Mousie tighter, wondering why he didn't enter the room as he usually would. The seconds ticked past, and finally John asked, “Why don't you want to kiss me?”

“Of course I do, sweetheart.” Greg strode across the room and sat on the edge, leaning down to kiss John softly on the forehead as he straightened the duvet around his shoulders.

“And Mousie,” John said, shoving the stuffed animal into Greg's face.

After Mousie got his kiss from Uncle Greg, John tucked him back under the duvet, kissing him goodnight as well. “And Daddy.”

Uncle Greg stopped and looked over to Daddy. When John followed the gaze, he found Daddy looking back at him, frowning slightly. “I think he wants _you_ to kiss him good night, John,” Uncle Greg said.

Daddy's face softened, and John leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Daddy pulled him close, and John snuggled into him, tucking Mousie safely between them.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Greg said, and John nodded into Daddy's chest, finally relaxed enough to fall safely into slumber.

* * *

The room was still black when John woke up. He cradled Mousie closer and reached out for Daddy. When his hand found nothing but cool sheets and empty air, he gasped and peered out into the darkness. “Daddy?”

The loo was dark as well, and bile began to rise in John's throat as he ran out into the hallway.

“Daddy!” he called out, racing toward Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg's bedroom. Bursting through the door, John shouted, “Daddy's gone!”

The bedside lamp clicked on, illuminating Uncle Greg's sleepy face. “John?”

“I can't find Daddy. He's-” John stopped, his mouth moving soundlessly as he took in the rest of the bed. “Where's Uncle Mycroft?”

Greg was speaking, but John couldn't hear him. If Daddy and Uncle Mycroft were gone, that left only one person to take care of John, and if Uncle Greg left, too, John would have nobody. He clutched the duvet in his fingers and tried to make sense of everything, holding tightly to keep himself from floating away on the wave of panic that had overtaken him. Everything but the soft fabric fell away, until Greg finally grabbed his face and pulled him back into the moment.

“Did you hear me, John? I said they're probably talking in Mycroft's office.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, but as soon as they did, John was running again. He was barely conscious of the walls and doorways rushing past him until he was inside Mycroft's office throwing himself into Daddy's arms.

“John!” Daddy put a hand on his back and another in his hair, pulling him securely into his lap where he sat on the sofa.

“I didn't know where you were,” John said, holding his daddy's neck as tightly as his arms could manage. He realized that he was crying, and he turned his head to wipe his face on his sleeve.

“I was right here, John.”

“But I didn't know where you were,” he explained again, hoping his daddy could make sense of what John himself could not. After a moment, it seemed like he did, because he began to kiss the top of John's head. As John relaxed into the affection, sniffing away his tears, he became aware of Greg and Mycroft in the room with them.

“Do you want me to take him back to bed?” Greg asked.

“No!” shouted John, and tightened his grip on Daddy.

“Yes, John,” Daddy said, wiping away the remnants of John's tears. “I'll be there in a bit.”

“No!' John clung to Daddy, who frowned as he tried to extricate himself. John just held on tighter, ignoring his daddy's admonishments and beginning to cry all over again. Before he knew what was happening, his legs were kicking in all directions and he was heaving great sobs into Daddy's shoulder. He barely registered the conversation happening around him.

“What have you done to him?” Daddy's voice rumbled though his chest.

“Nothing, Sherlock, it's just a strop.” Greg's hand fell lightly on John's back as he shushed him softly. “Deep breaths, there's a good lad.”

John stuttered through a few deep breaths, stilling his legs, but keeping his tight hold on Daddy.

“He's never done it before.”

“He's under a lot of stress, Sherlock.” Greg sat down on the sofa beside them and began to rub John's back.

“What do you mean, 'under stress'? I've come back!”

“You stropped constantly when you were young,” Mycroft cut in before Greg could answer. “Mummy talked to the paediatrician several times about it. Some would say you never stopped.”

“Clearly your influence, and now you've done the same to John.” Daddy strengthened his grip on John, and John relaxed a bit, unconcerned with holding Daddy so tightly when Daddy was already holding him. “Come on, John, let's go back to bed. My conversation with my brother is over.”

* * *

John found it difficult to sleep again, his body still alive with the adrenaline and stress of the evening. He floated in and out of consciousness, constantly checking for his daddy's presence. When, at one point, it wasn't there, he was instantly alert.

“I'm right here, John.” he heard his daddy speak from the armchair across the room. The voice was distant, as if Daddy were speaking from the vast recesses of his mind palace, but John knew from experience that he could still hold a conversation. In fact, sometimes it was the best time to get information from him.

“Why are you in the chair?”

“Thinking.” 

As John's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked more closely at Daddy's impassive face. “About what?”

“You.” Suddenly Daddy's eyes came back into focus, and he stood with a frown. “You should be asleep.”

“Will you read me more Narnia?”

Daddy picked a battered copy of Prince Caspian and sat on the edge of the bed. John was familiar with the book, and with the inscription on the front cover.

“Do you remember when Uncle Mycroft used to read Narnia to you?”

“Mycroft does like to overemphasise his influence on my childhood.” Daddy nudged John to the side so that they could share the duvet, and John rested his face against his daddy's thigh.

“He doesn't do the voices.”

“He's always been a bit lazy.”

John giggled at the idea of Uncle Mycroft being lazy, then closed his eyes and let the sound of Daddy's narration wash over him as he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted to post. I don't know whether it's ready or not.

The next time John woke, the sun was already brightening the bedroom. He snuggled into Daddy, who responded in kind by throwing a leg and arm over John and squeezing tightly.

“Daddy, you're smashing me,” he whispered.

Shifting slightly, Daddy alleviated the weight that had been resting on John. He studied John's face instead, tracing the lines of it with a finger as his eyes flicked over the details and began to piece them together into the puzzle that was John's mental state. John was familiar with the silent assessment, and with the sudden answers to problems John hadn't been aware of until his daddy solved them for him. He waited, open and hopeful, until Daddy frowned slightly.

“What's the matter, Daddy?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“I need to talk to you when you're big.”

John's fingers found their way to his mouth, and he bit down softly at the tips. Daddy had made several attempts to pull him back up the day before, and none had been successful. John was tired of trying, and he thought he might just stay little for the foreseeable future.

“John, I know you have control over this.” Daddy's hand rested on John's cheek. “I need you to come back up so I can talk to you.”

John shook his head and tried to burrow deeper into Daddy's shirt, but Daddy held him back. He winged softly and buried his face in the mattress instead.

“This is important.”

“I don't want to,” he mumbled around his fingers, shaking his head as if he could jostle the idea from his mind entirely.

“Why not?”

“Because I'll be cross with you. I'll be cross with you and I'll go away and I'll never see you again.” The words tumbled from his mouth, and tears quickly followed. His thoughts and emotions spiralled out of control as he saw himself big and angry and all alone in the world. The emptiness spread out from him, and his head spun. He was a single tumultuous point in an ever expanding void, until Daddy's arms reached around him and contained it, pulling John back to himself, to the bedroom where he lay with his daddy, just as he had wanted for the past two years.

“You're cross with me now,” Daddy said, and John was nodding before he realized it was true. He turned into Daddy's hug, hiding his face, and Daddy's breath ghosted over the top of his head. “You've become disobedient. At first I thought it was Mycroft and Lestrade's influence, but it's not, is it? It's because of me. You no longer trust me.”

John couldn't answer. Daddy's arms were warm and snug around him, but there was an invisible distance between them. John had tried to compensate by keeping them as close as possible, but no matter how closely he squeezed into Daddy's chest, the gap remained.

“I'm taking you back to Baker Street today,” Daddy said. “We've been here long enough.”

* * *

Daddy and Uncle Mycroft were having a row in Uncle Mycroft's office. They had been arguing about John for over an hour, even though Uncle Greg said that it wasn't John's fault. John vacillated between listening in on them and trying to ignore them in favour of his colouring book. When the noise became too much, he searched out Uncle Greg, who was in John's room sorting though a pile of John's clothes.

“What are you doing?” John peered into his empty drawers.

“You're moving back to Baker Street today, John. Don't you want to take your clothes back with you?”

For the first time, it occurred to John that in order to go back to Baker Street with his daddy, he would have to leave his uncles' house behind. Looking at the shirts folded neatly into the suitcase, John realized that he wanted his things at his uncles' house with him as well as back at the flat with daddy. He didn't know how to shape his feelings into words, though, and they churned within him, leaving him fidgeting and awkward in his own skin. He dug his thumbnail into the wood of the drawer, leaving a tiny groove in the finish, one he hoped his uncles wouldn't notice.

“I'm going to miss you, John,” Greg said, and John nodded.

Greg dropped the shirt he was folding and pulled John into his arms, leading him over to the bed. They sat there as John pulled himself together and Greg rubbed indecipherable patterns onto his back. It was a strange bookend to the first days they had lived together, but the loss that John felt at his imminent departure was all the more wrenching for its ambiguity.

“Did you want to stay here a few more days?” Greg asked him.

John thought about his daddy, and how he and Uncle Mycroft had been arguing about this very topic for most of the morning. “I don't know.”

“That's okay, sweetheart. It's okay not to know what you want. And it's okay to know and not want to tell anyone. We all love you, John.”

“After I move back to Baker Street, can this still be my room?”

“Of course it can, and Mycroft and I both want you to come back as often as possible.”

According to what John had heard of the morning's argument, Mycroft didn't want him to leave at all, at least not not until he was big again. “I'm going to stay little, and I'm going to visit you all the time.”

“Your daddy said he's trying to convince you to be grown up again.” John nodded, unsure where the conversation was going. “If you did, maybe you could come with him on some of my cases.”

John cuddled into his uncle, suckling on his fingers, and considered being big and helping on important cases. He wondered whether Uncle Greg would love him the same way. He definitely couldn't cuddle in his lap.

“Maybe I can stay little and help you anyway.”

Greg scratched lightly at John's scalp. “Children grow up, sweetheart. It's very rare that they grow up to be as wonderful a man as Dr. John Watson. It'd be a shame for the world never to see that man again.” The last the world had seen of Dr. John Watson, he'd been holed up in his flat, half-catatonic from apathy, doing everything he could to pretend the world didn't exist. “I know you're scared.”

“What if you never see me again? What if I stay big forever?”

“Then I'll find you and say, 'John Watson, I demand to see my nephew again, or I shall arrest you and throw you in the deepest, darkest dungeon you could possibly imagine.'”

“No!” John laughed, looking up at Greg's smiling face. “You can't!”

“And who would stop me?” Greg teased him. “I'm an officer of the law.”

“Uncle Mycroft and Daddy.”

“I think they would want to see you just as much as I would.”

John though about what it would be like to be big again, doing grown up things, like running with Daddy across London, jumping across rooftops and crawling through access tunnels.

“Maybe I'll do it.”

* * *

John and Daddy sat curled together on the sofa, John eating his ravioli whilst Daddy read the papers. Occasionally Daddy would ask for his opinion, and he would give it, then Daddy would give his own opinion so they could compare. Craning around to see one of the photos, John dripped a trail of meat sauce across the floor and onto Daddy's trousers.

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“Hmm.” Daddy replied, turning to a new article. “What do you know about the breeding of llamas?”

“I want to see the picture with the race car.”

Daddy tore the photo from the paper and handed it to him. John was going to use it to draw a picture of the four of them racing together, and John would be the race car driver. He put his bowl on the coffee table and traced the outline of the car with his finger. He was so intent on memorizing every curve that he didn't notice Mycroft's approach until his Uncle was right beside him, frowning at the bowl of food and the red sauce smeared across the floor and Daddy's trousers.

“Daddy told me to eat it here!” John explained quickly.

Mycroft's face tightened slightly. “John, please put your bowl in the kitchen and bring back some kitchen paper.”

Looking up at Uncle Mycroft uncertainly, John stood to obey, but before he could leave, Mycroft lay a hand on his shoulder. “There's no need to be upset, John, but I'd like you to clean up the mess."

“Okay,” John said, but he hesitated long enough for Mycroft to place another hand on him and draw him in for a hug. He relaxed into it, glad to be spared Mycroft's disapproval, but when he pulled back, Daddy looked just as unhappy as Mycroft had been before. Thinking quickly, John leaned over to give Daddy a kiss, too, then took his bowl and walked from the room. Instead of continuing to the kitchen though, John hovered just outside the doorway, listening.

“He knows the rules, and when you tell him they don't apply any more, it's confusing to him,” Uncle Mycroft said softly.

“John is not confused. He understands the situation perfectly. It's quite simple, really. My commands supersede yours.” Papers rustled, and John could only assume that Daddy had started to read again.

“Yes, Sherlock, you've made your point. You are quite able to undermine my authority when it comes to John. In the future, I hope you can do so without upsetting him.”

This time the papers didn't rustle, but rather crumpled harshly as they were thrown down. “I'm not the one upsetting him, Mycroft. He and I were quite content to sit here eating lunch before you came in, and if you'd like a discussion of undermining authority, perhaps you'd like to talk about your recasting of our childhood such that I was the hapless child under your benevolent care.”

“I've done-”

“Hello, John!” Uncle Greg greeted him loudly, and the argument suddenly stopped. John looked toward the doorway, his mouth too dry to respond. “Are you taking that back to the kitchen?”

Before he could nod his confirmation, Uncle Greg's arm was around him, leading him back toward the kitchen and away from Daddy and Uncle Mycroft's conversation.

“John, when we don't say things in front of you, it's usually because we think it might upset you to hear them.”

Of course John knew that, but that made the not hearing all the more excruciating. He nodded anyway, and didn't explain that the conversations that he imagined were so much worse than anything he'd ever eavesdropped on. In any case, he already knew what he had to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is ready. Sorry I don't have a beta, guys.

John sat on the floor of the loo, his eyes tightly shut as he tried to rise above everything he was feeling. With his daddy and uncles just a few metres away, all he wanted to do was run into their arms, but he resisted the urge and breathed heavily through his nose. It was a slow process, forcing his mind to claw its way up to adulthood, slower than it had ever been before.

Finally, he emerged from the security of the headspace and looked around the room with his new awareness. He was in Greg and Mycroft's home, he knew. Gripping the edge of the tub, he stood, teetering on the edge of sickness, lightheaded and shaky, and hemmed in by an environment that was familiar and distant at the same time.

As made his way to his bedroom, his heart ached with nostalgia for a childhood he shouldn't have had. Traces of it were everywhere: a battered copy of _Prince Caspian_ , a Lego set, a large stuffed mouse. John ran a hand over his face. He had to get out.

He found his way toward the front door easily, as if he were finally on the set of a film that he'd seen too many times to count. He was just a few steps away when Greg appeared behind him.

“Hi, sweetheart, did you want to-” Greg froze as John thrust a hand out to stop him from approaching. “John?”

“I need some air,” he said, stumbling toward the door.

“John!” Sherlock joined Greg in the foyer. “You're back. I knew you'd come around.”

“I can't...” He trailed off. He couldn't do anything. He had nothing left of his former life. He didn't know how long he had been gone, but it was certainly measured in years, not days.

“You can't leave,” Sherlock said, a note of panic creeping its way into his voice. “You're confused. You've been down for too long.”

“No!” John snapped. “Don't talk to me like you didn't make this happen.”

“All right, you're angry. I understand. I just...” Sherlock had never been good at placating anyone. He usually floundered until he gave up and tried to change the conversation. “Has Lestrade been choosing your clothes for you. I only ask because that shirt is absolutely-”

“Sherlock!” John might not have the insight into the human condition of the Holmes brothers, but he was quite the expert on the intricacies of one Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was trying to draw him into an argument to keep him at the house. “I'm leaving. I...” He patted his pockets reflexively, then looked around for a wallet that he hadn't needed in years. “Damn it!”

Greg pushed a wad of notes into his hand, followed by his cell phone. “Take your time, John.”

He took the money, but left the phone, not wanting to make it any easier for them to track him. Mycroft would still be following him over CCTV, he was sure, but at least he felt marginally less exposed without the physical reminder of his dependence upon them. By the time he had shoved the money in his pocket and fumbled the locks open, Sherlock was grabbing at his arm. He pulled away, but to no avail.

“Let him go, Sherlock.” Mycroft was suddenly there, and his presence was drawing John back. John was dangerously close to slipping back into childhood, secure in the knowledge that he had people to catch him before he fell too far.

“No!” Sherlock held tighter. “He's already told me he's not coming back.”

John pushed his sentimentality and need back down into himself, and when it threatened to overcome him, he pulled back his free arm and punched Sherlock soundly in the face.

“John!” Greg scolded, as Sherlock stumbled back and held his bleeding nose, but John was already running away, as if his feet could somehow flee his mind.

* * *

The coffee shop was quiet, most likely because the coffee was rubbish. John was the only customer, though someone had obviously been there before to leave a newspaper behind.

Two years. He'd been gone for two years, and he had no idea what had happened in the intervening time. Harry probably thought he was dead. His friends and colleagues probably thought he was dead. He had no job, no money, and no home outside those that he shared with Sherlock, Mycroft, and Greg.

The caffeine was affecting him more than he had expected. He vaguely remembered that Greg had not allowed him any in the time he'd been living there, not even tea or fizzy drinks. He'd also been forced to eat and sleep properly, and he had to admit he felt better than he had in years, if not a little pissed off.

He remembered the days before Mycroft and Greg had come for him. He'd been slipping, and he'd known it. He didn't have alcohol, like Harry, or drugs, like Sherlock, but he'd been destroying himself with the pure power of his mind. He could blame them for taking him away from his life, but the truth was that John had turned his own back on his life long before Mycroft and Greg had given him an alternative. He'd not been kidnapped after all, at least not that time.

His hands were shaking, and he let himself blame the coffee. He had to shore himself up against the force of Greg and Mycroft's affection. Sherlock he could be angry at, he knew, but it would be easy to let Greg and Mycroft take care of him as they had for the past two years. He needed to stand on his own two feet, though, and that meant shutting them out until he got his bearings. He took a deep breath, stood, and left the coffee shop behind.

* * *

The door opened at John's approach, confirming his suspicions that they had been monitoring him over CCTV. It was also the only explanation for Greg's lack of concern at John's five hour absence.

“Sherlock and Mycroft are in his study,” Greg told him.

“I don't need to see them. I just want...” John wanted to put his life back together. “I just want to go through my things.”

Greg nodded. “I found your wallet and your keys. Your flat's still there if you want to go back. We can even keep Sherlock here for a few more days, at least. He's going to be an arse about it, but he'll stay away.”

“It's his flat, too.”

“Yeah, but still.” Greg looked lost, maybe more so than John. He kept fiddling with the cuffs on his sleeves and couldn't meet John's eyes. “Mycroft's got your mobile working again. Everyone thinks you've been doing work for the army, by the way. Classified, so you don't have to explain anything. You should have your job back, if you want it.”

There it was, the choice that John had to make. He could have the life that he'd tried to make for himself after Sherlock had jumped, or he could have the life he'd had with Sherlock before. He'd begged Sherlock not to be dead, and the bastard had listened to him. As furious as he was that he'd been put in stasis to await Sherlock's return, he knew the choice that he'd make. He hadn't, after all, been given the opportunity to make a new life for himself, at least not one that was sustainable.

“Or you could stay here,” Greg said.

“What?”

“I know you don't want to, but you could do, if you wanted.” Greg fiddled with his cuffs again, and John realized that he was trying to keep from reaching for a cigarette. “I really liked having you here.”

“I'm not him.”

“I know you're not. Just...” Greg gave up, clenched his fists and pressed them against his forehead. “Fuck!”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Mrs. Hudson fussed over the return of her two boys, one from a war and one from the dead. She gave them knowing looks as she bemoaned the state of the drapes. It didn't take a genius to guess that the two returns were probably linked, though not in the way she probably imagined. John wondered how the world saw him: army veteran, crime fighter, and now secret agent. He wondered how he'd ever thought he'd be a GP for any extended length of time.

The flat itself was the same as he'd left it, if a little tidier without anyone to undo Mrs. Hudson's efforts. Sherlock made himself quite at home even before she left, throwing himself sideways into his chair as if he'd only been gone a few hours. It was more than John could take, and he turned to retreat to his room.

“John!” Sherlock twisted to his feet.

“I need some time.”

“You asked me to come back. At the graveyard and over video chat.” He stared expectantly, and when John didn't respond, he continued. “I've done as you asked. It's irrational to be angry at me.”

“Emotions aren't rational, Sherlock.”

“And yet yours have a patently obvious cause,” Sherlock accused him.

John was tired, but on the bright side, Sherlock's childish behaviour kept John mired firmly on the side of adulthood. “What are you talking about?”

“You prefer Mycroft and Lestrade. They were better.” Sherlock waited again for a response, and huffed when none came. “They were better parents than I am. You're angry at me for taking you away from them.”

“What?” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“There's no need to spare my feelings.”

“I'm not! We don't choose the people we love according to some objective criteria of how good they are.”

Sherlock looked baffled, and John would have appreciated it if he hadn't been so damned annoyed by the entire situation. “I do. I love you most because you're the best person I know.”

“That's ridiculous.” John headed toward the stairs.

“It's not. Why would I love you most if there were someone better?”

John turned back, searching Sherlock's face to determine just how much of a manipulative git the man was being at the moment. Shockingly, Sherlock seemed sincere, even to John's experienced gaze. “So you think I'm the best person in the world, and that's why you chose to fall in love with me.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock scoffed. “I don't know everyone in the world. You're the best out of the people I know.”

John laughed. Of all the stupid things Sherlock tended to say about the human condition, the statement was undoubtedly the stupidest, and incidentally the most endearing. “You just think that because you're in love with me and you're too much of an idiot to understand what love is.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he pondered John, deducing him all over again. “You saved my life, John. Not just the times you're thinking of. You save it. You make me human.”

“You have to do that for yourself..”

“I can't.” Sherlock looked out the window. “You know I can't.”

It should have been difficult, painful even, for Sherlock to make that admission, but he said it as a simple statement of fact. Sherlock needed John. “You can't put that on me. It's not my responsibility make you a better person.”

“And yet you do,” Sherlock told him, in a voice reserved for small children and idiots. “And that's why you're the best.”

John sighed. “Okay.”

“You're not angry any more,” Sherlock observed.

“No, I'm not.”

* * *

John knew he was being naughty. His mobile was strictly off limits when he was little, but the temptation had been too much to resist. He was hidden in the loo whilst Daddy looked at the pictures and files they'd pinned to the wall.

“Lestrade,” Uncle Greg answered, and John grinned so hard his cheeks strained.

“Uncle Greg!”

“John!” Uncle Greg sounded just as happy to hear John. “How have you been?”

“Good, but I want to visit you.”

“I want that too, sweetheart. Mycroft said you're coming this weekend if you don't have a case.”

Daddy had said the same thing to John, but John didn't want to wait until the weekend, and he especially didn't want his visit threatened by the possibility of a case. “Maybe Uncle Mycroft can send someone to kidnap us now.”

The silence that answered his suggestion made John squirm. “John, does your daddy know you're talking to me right now?”

John bit his lip. He'd called Uncle Greg and not Uncle Mycroft for just this reason, but even Uncle Greg was good at sussing out when John was doing what he shouldn't. To avoid incriminating himself, John said nothing.

“Give him the phone, sweetheart.”

Mumbling something that Uncle Greg would interpret as assent, John trudged from the loo back into the lounge, where Daddy perched on the coffee table studying the collage of evidence they'd collected. He'd only made it halfway there when Daddy stuck his hand behind himself, reaching for the phone whilst keeping his eyes trained on the evidence wall.

“Quickly, John.”

John placed the phone in Daddy's hand, then sat down on the table, hugging his daddy's leg and pressing his face to his thigh. He didn't dare look up when Daddy greeted Uncle Greg, afraid of the expression he might see.

“Yes, of course I knew,” Daddy spoke into the phone. At the tightening of John's arms around his knee, Daddy rested a hand in John's hair. “Presumably to arrange a meeting sooner than the one we have planned for this weekend.”

It was strangely comforting to know that Daddy had already known what John was doing, had most likely known before John himself had done. John relaxed as Daddy's fingernails scratched over his scalp.

“Yes, Lestrade, thank you for your input on my parenting skills. I'll certainly give your advice all the attention it deserves.”

Daddy tossed the phone onto the sofa, then reached down and pulled John to his feet. They stared at each other, John wondering at the amused smirk on Daddy's face until Daddy hugged him tightly and placed a loud kiss at the top of his head.

“I imagine standing on the furniture was not allowed in my brother's home.”

John shook his head, imagining Myroft's face if John had tried to stand on the coffee table there, and Daddy kissed him again.

“Nor was pinning evidence to walls, eating outside designated areas, using power tools for purposes other than those for which they were created...” The list continued, and Daddy punctuated each item with another kiss to John's head. Just as John though it might go on forever, Daddy pulled back and stared down at John with concern. “I don't how you endured such restriction. You're a stronger person than I am.”

“It was okay,” John said. It _had_ been okay, but it wasn't as good as living with Daddy. He loved his uncles, but Daddy was his daddy, even though he didn't know how to explain it.

Daddy peered at him thoughtfully. “All the structure and monotony can't have been good for you. The never ending parade of prosaic rules, it's a wonder you've remained mentally intact.”

“I missed you.” John rested his head on Daddy's shoulder, and Daddy wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Of course you did, and I missed you. I had no one to assist me. It was unbearable.” John couldn't imagine what he would have done without his uncles, if he'd been all alone like his daddy had been. “You provide a vital function, John.”

“And you provide a vital function, too, right Daddy?” John asked. It was how life should be: John and Daddy.

“Hmm, yes.” Daddy kissed John again. It was probably one of his vital functions. “I'm glad my brother and Lestrade were able to care for you while I was gone.”

John was glad, too. He smiled into Daddy's shoulder.

“And I suppose it's good you have them now, even if they are determined to dull your mind with mundane domesticity.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, though he hadn't quite understood what Daddy had said. “And it's good you have them, too, right Daddy?”

Daddy eyed John carefully. “My brother may be a lazy, imperious conformist, but he occasionally comes in useful.”

“And he loves us,” John whispered, thinking that Daddy would surely find a flaw in his statement. 

Daddy, however, only ran his fingers though John's hair. “That he does.”


End file.
